


Do Your Worst

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Series: Whumptober 2019 [26]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Gen, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, Non-Consensual Touching, Prompt: Ransom, That's what is important here, Tim Eats Salt, Torture, nothing happens though, that's the main thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 02:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21206243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: Tim gets involved in a hostage situation when an everyday coffee shop robber realizes the real prize is the son of Bruce Wayne.Alternatively: Tim is salty in more ways than one.





	Do Your Worst

**Author's Note:**

> Day 27: Ransom

Tim just wants his pumpkin spice latte. Is that so much to ask for? Really? Has the world reached such a depraved point where tired boys can’t even get a drop of caffeine without interruption?  
  
“Nobody move! Hands where I can see ‘em!”  
  
Apparently in Gotham it has. Always Gotham.  
  
_ “Bring me back a black coffee, will you?” _ Bruce said when he bailed on his and Tim’s meetup at the coffee shop. Said he had a case to finish up, so they’ll have to reschedule and spend their day doing work stuff instead of quality father/son bonding.  
  
_ “Bruce, I literally have anxiety. What makes you think I am capable of ordering stuff on my own?” _ It’s like he completely forgot that the whole reason Tim wanted him here in the first place was so there would be someone to order for him. Does trust mean _ nothing _ these days?  
  
Despite Tim’s volleying pleas and complaints, that traitor _ abandoned _ him here. The nerve. Tim resigned himself to sitting in a booth in the corner sprinkling salt packets on his tongue and trying to work up the nerve to go up to the counter.  
  
Then the asshole with the gun walked in, and everything went to hell.  
  
Right now he’s yelling at the girl behind the counter, demanding she give him everything in the register or he’ll start gunning down customers. Which is a tad over the top, Tim thinks, but who is he to judge a low-life coffee shop robber who wears fucking _ weed socks _ to his coffee heist?  
  
Watching the scene go down, Tim pours some salt into a Splenda packet and swishes it around before downing that as well.  
  
Every bone in his body—even the tired, noodle-y ones—tell him he should get involved. Pound this guy to a pulp and leave him for the police to handle while he walks away with his goddamn latte. Except, like an idiot, Tim had assumed this coffee run would last less than an hour and didn’t think to bring his Red Robin uniform.  
  
Plus, Tim Drake only got his leg braces off three weeks ago. There’s no way he could take this guy out with some “amateur self-defense” without invoking suspicion of the Vale sort.  
  
At least the guy didn’t cover his face. He can have his petty cash register money. Red Robin will track him down in an hour tops anyway, so no harm, no foul.  
  
“Hey. Hey, you!” Tim looks up from his salgur concoction packets and realizes he’s being spoken to. Well—yelled at, more like. “You, with the weird hair,” the robber orders. “Put your hands in the air if you wanna keep your brains inside your skull.”  
  
Weird...what? Wrinkling his eyebrows, Tim points to his head. “This is a fucking man-bun.” The gun’s safety clicks threateningly, so Tim rolls his eyes and does as told. Bitch doesn’t even know what a man-bun is.  
  
The man turns back to the terrified barista and tosses a duffle bag over the counter. “Now you’re going to fill that up with cash, or it’s a bullet through the brain. Capiche?”  
  
The girl is shaking and hesitates just a second too long. The guy _ really _ doesn’t like that. He should look into anger management courses—do something about that impatience of his. He reaches across the counter and grabs her harshly by the ponytail, yanking her closer.  
  
“Did you fucking hear me?” he growls. “Money in the bag, _ now.” _  
  
Tim can’t watch this anymore. If he wanted to watch a jerk knock around innocent people, he’d spend a day in Crime Alley. “Hey, asshole! Let her go.”  
  
The man’s head whips around, eyes landing on Tim with a scowl. He releases the barista’s ponytail and stalks toward Tim. “Excuse me?” The gun hangs menacingly at his side, his sausage-like fingers curling tighter around the handle.  
  
_ Welp, guess we’re doing this. _ Tim downs another salt packet and stands. “Look, Jerry— Can I call you Jerry?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You see, Jerry,” he continues, “I guarantee I’ve got more cash in my wallet than whatever’s in the register. What do you say I give you everything I’ve got on me, and you walk out of here without firing the toy. Sound like a plan?”  
  
The man’s—Jerry’s—eyes narrow as he stares Tim down, brows wrinkled like he’s trying to place where he’s seen his face before. Then he seems to make the connection. “You’re that Wayne kid, aren’t you? Drake.”  
  
He has to give the guy props. It can’t be easy matching the put-together Tim Drake-Wayne everyone sees on the news to the scruffy kid standing before him in a Superboy t-shirt, one of Stephanie’s pink cardigans, and crocs.  
  
“Yes I am,” Tim says. “Which means you know I can top anything you came here for. So why don’t you leave these people alone and take the deal, all right?” Of course Tim’s going to drop a tracker the second Jerry’s back is turned and come after him later, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt a coffee shop full of people.  
  
He expects a nod. An agreement. A satisfied smile, even, because _ gee, Mr. Drake, that’s so generous of you! How about I buy you a latte to show my appreciation before you throw my ass in jail? _ Common courtesy.  
  
Instead, this asshole grins—and not even in a nice way. He reminds Tim of a lizard chomping on a fly. “One of Wayne’s kids? Even better than what I came here for.”  
  
Tim pauses, halfway through tearing another salt packet from the collection he’d smuggled into his pocket. “What?”  
  
Instead of answering, Jerry grabs Tim by the arm and empties a cartridge into the ceiling, making the other hostages scream. “Everyone in the corner!” he shouts. People shuffle as directed, all trying not to get shot.  
  
Then Jerry tightens his grip on Tim and leers, showing all his lizardy teeth. “You, Mister Wayne, are coming with me.”

* * *

For an obnoxious dumbass, one has to admire Jerry’s creativity. He tied everyone’s hands using cookie-box twine from behind the counter—including Tim’s. And his ankles. Which is frustrating.  
  
The other hostages are backed into one side of the shop, but Jerry’s barely paid any attention to them in the past half hour. No, all he cares about is Tim, it seems.  
  
Tim’s lip is swollen and his head throbs from where it was slammed into the counter earlier, but other than that he thinks he’s fine. The twine cutting into his hands is uncomfortable, and he has to admit it’s not fun being tied to a chair. But it could be worse.  
  
Jerry stole Tim’s phone and is setting it up on the counter to take video footage, which _ can’t _ mean anything good. At least he’s not likely to kill anyone if he thinks he has an attentive audience, so there’s an almost-win.  
  
As soon as the recording starts, Jerry moves back behind Tim and grabs him by the hair—what’s his deal with hair? Seriously, is this some kind of fetish?—and yanks it back so Tim is forced to look at the camera.  
  
“Good evening, Mr. Wayne,” Jerry says. “As you can see, I’ve got your son here. Whether he leaves here undamaged depends all on how willing you are to cooperate.”  
  
“Actually,” Tim chimes in, tonguing his swollen lip, “you kind of already damaged me. I say give him twenty percent off.”  
  
Jerry punches him so hard that black spots blot Tim’s vision, and he hears a sickening crunch that he sincerely hopes is just cartilage. “Shut _ up, _ you little prick. _ God.” _  
  
“Ow,” Tim groans. He feels blood run over his lips, warm and thick. “Son of a _ bitch.” _  
  
“As I was saying,” Jerry continues, back on the camera. “To put it simply, I want four billion dollars transferred into my bank account. Every minute you delay only means more pain for our friend here, so I’d make it snappy if I were you.”  
  
“Four billion?” Tim scoffs. “Even I’m not worth _ that _ much.”  
  
Jerry growls and releases Tim’s hair, walking past where Tim can see—to grab something, maybe? While he’s distracted, Tim glares straight into the camera. _ Don’t, _ he mouths, shaking his head minutely. _ Other way. _  
  
Bruce will know what he means: forget about the money altogether and get Batman in here to crack skulls. So long as Bruce thinks to check his cell and isn’t too enthralled in the case to pay attention to his notifications, which...wouldn’t be good. That would actually kind of suck.  
  
Shit, how often does Bruce even check his phone?  
  
Tim shuts his mouth when he hears good old Jerry returning from wherever he strolled off to. Tim twists his head, trying to see what he’s got up his sleeve now. “Hey, man, what’s—”  
  
Without warning, a knife is jammed into Tim’s leg. It’s so sudden there’s no time to smother his scream of pain, nor is he prepared for when the knife suddenly _ twists, _ tearing flesh and muscle like butter _ . _  
  
Tim doesn’t try to hold back the wails of agony, tears pricking his scrunched eyes. After a minute Jerry lets go, leaving the knife sticking out of Tim’s thigh.  
  
Tim is shaking, panting as waves of pain radiate from the new hole in his leg. “What—What the _ fuck,” _ he gasps. He swallows back a whine. “You fucking— _ ah _ —fucking _ asshole. _ These jeans are _ Gucci.” _  
  
But Jerry isn’t paying attention to him anymore. “Four billion,” he says to the camera. “Your choice.” Then he goes and turns off the recording, fiddling as he sends it straight to Bruce’s phone.  
  
Tim’s leg is on _ fire. _ Jesus Christ. “You know,” he says through his teeth, “he’s never going to—to give you the money, right? All of that cash is in the hands of Wayne Enterprises. I’m the CEO. They can’t transfer anything without my approval.”  
  
It’s the exact same wall Ra’s ran into a year ago when Tim first became CEO in the first place. It’s the wrench in this whole, terrible plan.  
  
Jerry simply shrugs, unconcerned. “Then I guess you’ll have to pray they figure out a way to do it. Otherwise this won’t be very fun for you.”  
  
He walks past Tim again, flicking the knife in his thigh with a chuckle and making Tim bite his tongue so hard iron bursts on his taste buds.  
  
What an asshole.

* * *

What an _asshole._  
  
Tim would say it out loud, but he gave up on insults five injuries ago. He barely has the strength to lift his head now, not wanting to disturb the ache pounding in his head from all of the hits he’s taken.  
  
Jerry—more like Jerky—has broken two of Tim’s fingers already, and it hasn’t even been a full hour. He really wasn’t lying when he said this wouldn’t be fun. Blood coats Tim’s teeth and one of his eyes is swollen shut. The knife in his leg was ripped out long ago, and blood crusts over the fabric of his jeans.  
  
Tim stopped counting the hits after his head started spinning too much for him to grasp a clear thought. All he knows is that everything hurts. He just wants to get _out _of here already, and he knows that the fact that he’s still here means Bruce hasn’t seen the message.  
  
Does he even know Tim is in trouble? Police and news crews are outside, dealing with the hostage situation in typical useless Gothamite fashion, but is _Bruce _aware of what’s happening?_ Look at the fucking_ _television, B. _  
  
Jerry paces the floor, checking his own phone. Waiting for his bank account to suddenly fill up with dough that won’t come because really, how _stupid _does he need to be to not understand that the only person who can pay Tim’s ransom is Tim himself? Idiot.  
  
“Damn it, what’s _taking _so long?” he demands, looking accusingly at Tim as if it’s all his fault. Which...there’s a good chance it might be. Sucks to be him.  
  
Jerry goes back to Tim’s phone where it’s still propped on the counter. _Oh boy, another movie? _This is going to be wonderful.  
  
He starts the recording and goes back to Tim, this time toting his gun around like a trophy. Tim is ready to make a comment about overcompensation, but he’s cut off by the gun being pressed under his jaw, making his blood freeze in his veins. 

“I’m not going to say this again,” Jerry tells the camera through clenched teeth, “so listen the fuck up. If I don’t see my money in the next ten minutes, I’m gonna blow this little shit’s _ brains _ all over the damn floor.”  
  
He jams the gun harder into Tim’s throat, wrenching his chin up. Tim swallows thickly, eyes flickering from the camera to the gun under his chin and back. Yikes. Big yikes. _ Huge _ yikes.  
  
Jerry is panting, his face red with rage that...slowly starts to simmer down as his blocky tofu loaf of a brain starts working. What he’s thinking, Tim has no idea. It’s hard to care about abstract stuff when there’s a gun pressed to your throat.  
  
Then, slowly, the gun leaves. The tension in Tim’s body loosens, but makes way for suspicion as Jerry moves the hand clutching Tim’s hair down until it circles the back of his neck, which sends goosebumps racing across Tim’s skin.  
  
“Or,” Jerry says in a gentler voice that somehow sounds even more menacing than when he was yelling, “maybe not. It’d be a waste to kill such a handsome boy, don’t you think, Brucie?”  
  
Wait. What?  
  
_ Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck— _  
  
Tim’s breaths hitches when the hand around his neck drifts even lower, practically stroking his collarbone now. He stiffens, alarms sounding in his head because _ no, no, hell no. _ Just the thought of it has him trembling.  
  
“I want. My money,” Jerry says, eyes hard and cold. Tim tries to pull away from his touch, fear spiking. He’s going to vomit. He’s going to pass out. He’s going to—  
  
Suddenly, the sound of smashing glass echoes through the room, and Jerry is gone. The hand is gone. Tim goes slack, swallowing back bile as he watches the Red Hood tackle the man to the floor, fists flying.  
  
“You stay the _ fuck _ away from him,” Jason growls. One final blow has Jerry completely knocked out, and only then does Tim let out a deep, shuddering breath.  
  
“Took you long enough,” he says while Jason comes around to untie his bonds. He winces as blood rushes back into his hands.  
  
“Slow WiFi,” Jason says with a shrug. “Bruce Wayne will be coming soon.” Okay, so at least the lack of Batman doesn’t mean Bruce forgot about him. He just sent Jason for the action and he’ll take care of the cleanup.  
  
“Would have appreciated it if you came before I got my fingers broken, but sure.”  
  
Jason laughs, helping Tim out of his chair and supporting the side with his injured leg. “Come on, kid. Let’s get you home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


End file.
